


Five Times John and Sherlock Had Horrible Dates (and One Time They Didn't)

by warm_nostalgia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Awkward Dates, Bad Flirting, Bad dates, Caught, Coming In Pants, Dinner, Domestics, Drug Use, Dry Humping, Embarrassed John, Embarrassment, Emotional Sex, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Injury, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Movie Night, Museums, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Restaurants, Rimming, Teenagers, Time Skips, Weddings, Wine, interruptions, occasionally, what a handy tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:29:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2018073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warm_nostalgia/pseuds/warm_nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our boys are cursed to have the most shitty dates in the history of shitty dates. As a result, it pulls them closer than ever. Another rom-com by yours truly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All right, I've just randomly thought of this, so I'm sort of going as I write. I've got many ideas, though. Also, this chapter is an prologue of sorts. The other chapters will definitely not be this short. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Eventually there would be a first date. Of course there would be. They'd danced around the tension long enough to know something needed to be done.

Just last week Sherlock Holmes had abruptly stopped breakfast to announce he was enervated of said silly dance and rounded the table to tip John Watson's chin up and peck his lips for the first time.

(Ergo, this caused the doctor to push away and yell at him for a while before snagging his sleeve and snogging him remarkably against the wall for minutes.)

So, fast-forwarding a week later (the previous time comprised of kissing and snuggling and shy experimental sex and _quite_ a lot of spending time together in their flat), John had proposed the idea of a date.

"A date? Hasn't...this _all_  been dating? Spending time together in the flat?" Sherlock had drawled from behind his science magazine.

"It's been lovely, but perhaps something public would be nice. Where we spend money on each other or...just get out," John suggested with a shrug. The shorter man was perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair, and ran a hand between his new lover's curls.

"We can get out," Sherlock agreed slowly, and glanced up curiously in the direction of the hand in his hair.

"Great. I'll start coming up with ideas, yeah?" John ducked his head and kissed Sherlock's ear. 

"Mm, yes, good, whatever."


	2. Cinema Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating change for some naughtiness in the theater.

"Ah, two tickets for the showing, yes," John told the girl at box office, passing her his card through the hole. 

"Senior discount, today, sir?" the girl asked. "Can I ask for your age?"

John blinked, looked behind him, and looked back at the Cockney teenager. "I'm - uh, I'm sorry?"

The girl sighed and leaned closer to her microphone. "I _said,_ " she enunciated loudly in her accent, "we do _senior discounts_ for those over _fifty-nine,_ sir."

Sherlock sniggered behind John, who ran a tongue over his teeth and controlled his slight temper. 

"I'm forty-one years old, ma'am. I don't need –"

"Sorry sir, you're not qualified," the girl sniped, swiping his card. She slid out a receipt, his card, and two tickets through the hole. "Enjoy your film."

"Perhaps we should see if they do military discount," Sherlock offered from behind him.

"Sod it," John grumbled, grabbing their items.

"You'll need to move a bit quicker, sir. We've got more people behind you," the girl interrupted.

" _Yeah,_ I bloody  _know,_ thank you!" John shouted, and felt Sherlock's hand on his back, pushing him along.

* * *

 

"If it means anything, I don't think you're old."

"It doesn't, but thanks for trying."

"She was an idiot. Forget her," Sherlock murmured, nudging his nose gently into John's hair. 

John relaxed slightly and smiled, reaching down to take Sherlock's hand. "So do you think just a popcorn to share, then?"

Sherlock squeezed his friend's hand. "Yes. I'll pay, since you paid for tickets. This movie sounds idiotic, though."

"Thank you for paying. You can sleep during it if you like."

"No. Sacrifices will be made for you."

John rolled his eyes and smiled fondly. "My hero."

"Just doing what I can to keep you."

They moved up the line, behind another couple at their turn, both staring at the choices. 

"Well perhaps if we just did the little popcorn and I get the candy, then I could get the soda –"

"Anne, we can just do a combo, for God's sake. _Look_."

"I don't want all that."

Sherlock sighed at the inane conversation. "This will be forever."

It was.

Five minutes later and the couple was getting dirty looks from the other customers, and even one of the people behind the counter not serving them. "No, no, no, no, we said  _medium_. Medium size. I'm paying this money and _you're_ going to do it right."

John checked his watch. "Perhaps we ought to forget the popcorn, Sherlock. Previews have already started."

"No. I'm paying for something tonight. Just wait. These imbeciles will be gone soon enough."

"I'd like to see a manager!" the woman ahead of them demanded, making the cashier jump. 

"Shit," John muttered, rubbing his eyes.

* * *

 

The movie had already begun by the time they'd got their popcorn.

Their popcorn was not warm nor fresh, and quite expensive.

John huffed as Sherlock dragged him to a spot in the empty back row. The theater they were in had people scattered around, some in groups or couples and some not. A count gave eight people total. Not a popular film, then.

They got their calm as they watched the film, Sherlock making simple comments from time to time like "ridiculous" or "stupid" and John telling him to shut his trap so he could watch. 

Toward the end of the movie, though, Sherlock's hand crept up John's thigh. John blinked away from the screen and glanced at the detective. "Really? In the mood now?" he murmured quietly, smiling at him.

"A bit, perhaps." Sherlock's finger traced the inside of John's thigh, and he ghosted his lips over the man's neck.

 _Maybe this date isn't too bad after all,_ John thought, tilting his neck back and softly grunting in encouragement when an explosion sounded in the movie. "Don't tease, love," he sighed.  
  


"Not planning to," Sherlock murmured, and left wet kisses down John's skin. He brought both hands across to unlatch John's belt, but knocked over their bag of popcorn in his haste. It tumbled to the floor and spilt under the seats. 

"Ah, fuck. There goes our ten quid popcorn," John hissed.

"Ignore it. I've got something better," Sherlock promised, undoing the button and zip of John's jeans and pulling his penis out of his pants.

John gasped and covered his mouth with his palm, grateful for the loud sound effects of blaring alarms from the film. His other hand tangled in Sherlock's hair.

The detective pushed up the armrest between them as he pumped his fist around John, watching his face now. He kissed his cheek sweetly. "Glad I'm getting better at this?"

John laid his hand on his suddenly heaving chest and shut his eyes. "You're insane. But fuck, this is oddly a turn-on."

"Well, then you'll love this," Sherlock murmured into his ear. He pulled John's hand by the wrist and moved it to his mouth in signal to cover it (which John did in an instant). 

Then –

_OhfuckwarmwetwarmwetwarmwetSherlockSherlockSherlock –_

A drop of pre-come immediately burst into Sherlock's mouth as John bit down on his hand and whimpered. He opened his eyes and stared at the theater screen, hoping he was not giving anything away as he felt the bloody bastard swallow him. His hand tightened on Sherlock's curls and tugged gently. Thankfully, the next two rows were empty as well, and everyone seemed to have the best seats in the front or middle.

Sherlock, meanwhile, suckled gently at the pink head of John's cock, greedily licked the foreskin, and kissed down to the balls tucked into his pants.

And John thought it was bloody _Christmas._

His orgasm impending, John gasped and leaned down to Sherlock. "Gotta come soon," he panted, running a hand through his lover's hair. _"Fuck."_ His testicles were painfully drawn up, and when John looked up, the credits were starting. "Shit, shit. Hurry." 

People in the theater began getting up and leaving, and soon enough, it was just them left alone. John let out a moaning sigh and felt his hips buck up into Sherlock's mouth. 

Sherlock slid off, but then got on his knees on the floor, took him in his mouth again, and began bobbing enthusiastically. John didn't bother stopping the low groan that came off his lips.

"Please, please - close - I've got to - " John's eyes widened, and he shoved his hips home just a bit.

But then, he felt Sherlock pull him in deep by the hips.

All was lost.

"Ah, _ah, Sher –!_ " The rest was lost in quiet whines behind his palm.

John's semen burst warmly into Sherlock's mouth, who swallowed it down and licked gently at the head when he'd milked the last drop with his hand. Sherlock heard an uncomfortable noise from the blissed-out man above him when he'd reached the point of sensitivity, and he tucked him back into his jeans, even bothering to do his belt for him.

"You're such a genius," John sighed, grabbing Sherlock for a hard kiss. 

Sherlock took opportunity of the moment to crawl onto John's lap, and began grinding, humping, thrusting against his thigh like an animal. John groaned when Sherlock pulled back from the kiss to take in shallow, moaning breaths into his neck and shoulder. 

"Come on, love. Yeah. Be quick. You gonna come in your trousers for me, like a naughty boy?" John husked into Sherlock's ear, only urging Sherlock to thrust against him harder as he nodded vigorously. "Christ. You beautiful thing." He leaned his head in to suck at his flatmate's earlobe. "Keep fucking against me. Yes, just like that, God, you're perfect..."

"Say my name," Sherlock gasped to him. "I'm close, say my name, need your voice, John. Say it. Love to hear you say it, come on."

The credits wrapped up, and the lights began coming to life quicker and quicker. John panicked when he saw something open out of his peripheral vision.

It was a door to their right. 

John turned his head to find out, and managed to look horrified as a young boy, probably no more than sixteen or seventeen, blinked several times and flushed and choked on air, a pushbroom in his hand. 

Ah. Clean-up crew. _Hadn't thought that through, John, had you?_

"Sherlock," John gasped. "Sherlock, _Sherlock!_ " He pushed at his shoulders.

Sherlock gave a broken cry and humped against his thigh faster than before. "Oh, God,  _yes, John, John, John!_ " was what he cried out before shuddering and stilling completely. Fingernails bit into John's lower arms as one man's ragged gasps filled the air.

John closed his eyes in embarrassment as he felt a wet spot bloom on his thigh, and opened them to see the boy had disappeared.

"Sherlock."

A soft, tired moan from the lump slumped against his stomach.

" _Sherlock."_

"What, for God's sake?"

"The cinema's security guard will be on us in minutes. We need to leave now."

Moments later, Sherlock and John, both still drunk on oxytocin but feeling awfully odd and exhilarated inside, snuck through the fire exit and dashed down the street.

"No more cinema dates," John grumbled in the cab.

"Definitely not," Sherlock agreed. "That was probably the worst and most mortifying first date ever."

They both fell into giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming from someone who works in a movie theater, as hot as it might be imagining these two getting at it, this is a PSA not to have sex there.   
> In the wise words of Muriel from The Suite Life of Zack and Cody, "I'm not cleaning THAT up!"


	3. Restaurant Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is late wine and food, Sherlock's dress shirt gets colorful, and John pulls what I like to call a 'Rose Tyler.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking a while to update! I forced myself to sit down and type this, though. So here you go! (btw, no smut in this one. ha.)

“Perhaps this one will go well.”

“Perhaps.”

Sherlock gave John a look and shook his head. “Come on, now. You always call me the negative one.”

“We scarred that young boy for life, I'm sure of it.”

“Oh, a few therapy sessions and he'll get over it,” Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand.

John snorted and laid his napkin over his lap, smiling. “Nutter.”

“You too, dear.”

John's chest fluttered and did a twisty-like thing, and he bit his lower lip, staring at the table with a smile.

“I hope our wine's coming soon,” the detective muttered impatiently. He checked his watch. “Yes. It's been nearly twenty minutes.”

“I think you jinxed the thing about the date going well,” John murmured.

“Come over here, will you?”

“Enjoy a bit of arm candy or are you going to hurt me?”

“Come over and see.”

John huffed and slid out of his booth, into Sherlock's. “I'll let you know I was once a soldier.”

“I know.”

“I am also a doctor, who knows how to hurt people just –“

Sherlock grabbed him for a kiss, right on the lips, cutting off his words.

“Right,” John laughed softly after they'd parted, and rested a hand on Sherlock's knee. “What was that for?”

“Because I can, first and foremost. That will be one reason I kiss you always. And the second is because I want to make sure this date turns out somewhat okay.”

“Awh. Sweet.”

Sherlock flushed. “I am nothing of the sort. Go back to your booth and let me alone.”

“Sour,” John grinned, and smacked a kiss on his flushed cheek before moving to his booth.

* * *

 

Finally, five minutes later, their wine came.

“Very sorry for the delay. We're quite held up here. A big party arrived,” the waiter explained. He opened the wine bottle and poured both of them some in their glasses. “Have we gotten a chance to decide on what we're ordering?”

John and Sherlock both nodded, gave their orders, and the waiter scribbled them down on his notepad.

“No appetizers tonight?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. I'll just take your menus...” The waiter reached across, took John's, then Sherlock's, and –

“Oh, God, sir, I am so sorry!”

Sherlock gaped as red wine stained into his white shirt.

John tossed him his napkin previously on his lap, unsure of what to do.

Sherlock glared at both of them as he dabbed and dabbed and dabbed. It turned out, when the waiter had taken his menu, it tipped the wine glass straight onto the now upset man. “Idiot,” he spat at the waiter.

“It's fine,” John interjected. “He means to say, uh, it's fine.” Then, turning to his date, “Shut up, Sherlock.”

“The bottle will be on the house,” the waiter stuttered, hands clutching their menus.

“Doesn't make it better,” Sherlock grumbled, and John kicked him under the table, giving him a stern look that clearly read _behave yourself._

But the waiter had left.

* * *

 

Nearly forty-five minutes later their food finally arrived, set in front of them. John picked up his fork and knife and ate, digging into his chicken, and glanced up at Sherlock. He paused. “We didn't toast.”

“Do we have to?”

“We're British. We should.” John set down his utensils and grabbed his wine.

Sherlock's raised eyebrow – and glass – meant enough.

“What're we toasting to, exactly?”

“To us?” John suggested, and Sherlock pulled a face.

“How cheesy.”

“How about to us having mind-blowing _private time_ when we're back at the flat?”

Sherlock paused, looked intrigued, and nodded. “That I can drink to.”

They tapped their glasses together and smiled.

* * *

 

When they were waiting to leave, John mentally took in deep, slow breaths, and looked up at his partner.

“Sherlock.”

“Mm?”

“Um. I have something a bit important I'd like to say.”

“It's all right. I'll take it to the dry cleaners for once.”

John laughed. “No, no, not that. Though I think red suits you.”

“Does it?” Sherlock plucked at his wet shirt.

“Yes. But that's not what I was going to talk about.”

“Obviously. Go on.” Sherlock's light eyes fixed on John's.

“Well...” John felt his pulse skip a step. “Uh, I just...wanted to clarify. Um. I – this, I...”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Are you leaving me?”

John's eyes widened. “What? No, absolutely not,” he objected.

Sherlock's shoulders sunk slightly in relief, though his face betrayed nothing. “Oh, all right. Again, go on.”

“I was _saying,_ ” John continued, “I've always sort of fancied you, you know. You make me feel like I'm alive –“

“You're _already_ alive –”

“Figure of speech, you twit. Stop interrupting for a bit?”

“Fine.” Sherlock leaned back and hid his amused smile.

“Anyway, you...kind of just...put me together when I broke. When I came to London. I felt like dying in a dark hole until we chased that cab that one night.” He smiled, and saw Sherlock reciprocate. Under the table, he felt Sherlock's foot bump his before he rubbed their ankles together. “Uh, well, you did a lot of incredible things to make me feel like I was worth something. That life was worth living. Even before _this._ So I wanted to say – I – I wanted to let you know that I –” John's words caught in his throat, and he flushed.

“That you...?” Sherlock urged quietly, trying to push the words out of John.

“I think I'm – well, I'm – I'm not completely sure. Or, at least, I wasn't, for a long time, but then I thought, well, bloody hell, I think I am. I think I really am...” John sucked in a breath. “Sherlock, I _–_ “

“Wine's taken off, guys. No need to worry about that. Again, so sorry, sir. Complete mistake,” the waiter interjected, holding the credit card out to John.

“I would _hope_ it wasn't intentional,” Sherlock snipped, and John, meanwhile, had his crimson face stuffed in his hands. When he didn't look up to take his card, the waiter let Sherlock take it instead, and then flinched away with a muttered “have a good night”.

“Come on, John. Grab your jacket. Can't stand this establishment a moment longer. Horrible.” Sherlock stood and shouldered on his coat, then flipped up the collar.

John didn't move.

“John.”

Again, nothing. No response. Just more embarrassed face covering. And that's where Sherlock realized his mistake.

“It wasn't really that bad. I was over-exaggerating.” He slid into the booth next to the doctor and attempted to pry John's hands away from his face. It worked, eventually, and he tilted John's chin so that he faced him. “And I...” He took in a breath, because he quite needed it, and exhaled out, “Love you too.” He frowned. “That much should've been obvious, John. Really.” He cupped his cheeks and ran his thumbs over the creases under John's eyes. He felt them move, shrink up, and John's beaming smile followed.

"No. You definitely jinxed it," the doctor replied quietly. Then, John looped his arms around Sherlock and kissed him, and Sherlock kissed back, both of them stupidly, ridiculously happy.


	4. After Hours and Meteor Showers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late trip to Hyde Park goes awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this title to rhyme. Isn't that great?
> 
> Read! Warnings for homophobic slurs and drug usage.

“It's lovely out tonight.”

John nodded, hands in his jacket as he strolled down the pavement with Sherlock. It was getting darker out as they approached Hyde Park.

Sherlock gestured to the park with his head. “Want to walk?”

The doctor hesitated as they stopped at the entrance. “I don't know if it's open.”

“Do parks close?”

“Yeah. Look, here's a sign.” John leaned in and squinted at the letters and numbers, then glanced at his watch. “We've...got twenty minutes.”

“Let's go.”

“Sherlock, it's empty,” John started, but gave an amused laugh as he was dragged in.

“I want to see the stars between the trees,” Sherlock replied, grabbing for John's hand and leading them down a random path.

“You of all people.”

After a while of walking, they found a clear outing.

“Virgo,” John said quietly, pointing up to a scattering of stars.

“Hm?”

“Virgo. The constellation.”

“Hm.”

After a pause, John murmured, “I like this. Us. Like this.” He wound an arm around Sherlock's waist loosely and pulled him close.

“Mm,” Sherlock replied. He checked his watch. “Oh, come on.”

“What?” John asked, raising his head from Sherlock's shoulder to give him a peculiar look.

“Oh! There it is. Look, John.” Sherlock pointed to the sky and grinned as a white, flaming light streaked and left its trail across the dark sky.

“Huh! Shooting star?” John inquired, mystified as it dropped to earth soundlessly.

Sherlock seemed a bit disappointed. “Meteor, yes. Must've been a tiny one.”

John glanced up at him. “You planned this, didn't you?”

The detective simply shoved his hands in his coat pockets and looked forward. “A bit, perhaps.”

John shook his head and smiled. “Romeo.”

“Call me that again and I promise you they won't be able to locate your body.”

“Understood.” After a pause, John leaned up and kissed Sherlock's cheek, then rose his hand to tilt his lover's head toward his. He pressed their lips together and held the taller man's hips, pulling him forward.

That's when he felt a beer can hit his feet. He broke the kiss and glanced down, frowning. “Er, that's not yours, is it?” he laughed.

Sherlock glanced down. “I don't drink _cans._ ”

“Posh.”

“Pedestrian,” Sherlock shot back, leaning in to kiss John again. John's face came up to cup Sherlock's cheeks, and he grinned against his lips.

Another beer can hit him. This time, his arm. He pulled back and furrowed his eyebrows. “Is someone tossing shit at us?”

That's when they heard it.

“Nasty queers!” Obnoxious young male voice, coming from behind them in a forested area.

“Oh, for God's sake,” Sherlock muttered. “Come on. Let's just go,” he suggested as John's face turned pink with anger. They started walking toward the exit, tense.

“Faggots!” another voice called. Also young. Also male.

“Hm. I smell marijuana,” Sherlock muttered.

“Imagine that,” John sighed, and attempted to wave away the assaulting stench. “God. Smells like a bloody sew– _fuck!_ ” John clenched his side and stumbled into Sherlock as a rock the size of a fist thunked into his side. “Shit!”

Sherlock moved swiftly to hold him up. “I've got you, I've got you.”

“Fucking hell,” John swore, rubbing his side. There was a shuffle in the branches and shrubbery.

“Stay here.”

“Sherlock, what're you – ?”

“Stay there!” Sherlock hissed as he stepped off the path and headed to the trees.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were really quite easy to spot, the two boys and one girl, all fairly drunk and high given their conversation. About seventeen- or eighteen-year-olds, he supposed. Their backs were turned from him, and Sherlock snuck up as the girl (growing eating disorder, divorced parents, well-off) fiddled with her lighter, trying desperately to get a spark for her cigarette. The detective pulled out his own lighter and rolled it, a flame appearing at the end as he crouched by her side. “Allow me?”

The girl jumped and gave a scream, catching her cigarette between her fingers. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tipped the lighter, letting the flame catch before he put it away. He stood up and took a step back. “Hello. I believe you were throwing trash and rocks at my partner back there,” he called to the boys, who had scrambled back and stood up.

“You gonna call the police?” one of them piped up. “'Cause that wasn't us. Wasn't us.”

“Your hands are shaking, it reeks of pot over here, we distinctively heard two voices, one of which sounded like yours, and you already have a few more rocks, pebbles, and empty cans over there.”

“We didn't do noffin', we swear,” the girl whined. “I didn't, at least. I didn't do noffin'. Don't call 'em on me.”

Sherlock ignored her. “A bit ridiculous, don't you think? You two,” he pointed to the boys, “have repressed feelings for each other.” He pointed to one of the boys. “You are shagging her to hide it – oh, actually just finished not too long ago back in that loo, I'm sure, clean those stains on your shirt – and,” pointing to the other boy, “you're jealous. What a love triangle.”

“I ain't no fucking pouf like you!” the second boy yelled, looking nervous.

Sherlock snorted in amusement.

“Are – are you callin' the cops on us?” the boy repeated.

“Calling? I prefer to text. I've got connections.”

“Who the hell are you?” the girl piped up.

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Shall we count the charges I could mention?”

The three teens quieted.

“Obvious charges if you're under eighteen, drug possession, public misconduct, hate crime –“

“Oi, freak, stop socializing,” came Sally Donovan's voice. John followed behind.

“Donovan? Where's Lestrade?”

“In the car. He's holding a grudge.” She produced a pair of handcuffs and looked the teens over, then scanned the area as another police officer Sherlock wasn't familiar with came in as well.

“Don't try running. That's another charge,” Sherlock added.

“Shut it, Holmes. I have enough reason to ask what the hell you and Watson are doing in a closed park as well later on.”

“Do take a breath, Sally. We weren't shagging in the loos. That was them,” the consultant sighed over the young girl's sobbing as she was handcuffed. “Don't miss the spray paint cans in the messenger bag over there.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, they left the charges to the police and didn't get involved.

“How's your side?” Sherlock asked as he returned to the sitting room of 221b with paracetamol and water.

“Doing better, but still in pain,” John responded, pressing the bag of frozen peas closer to the ribs and wincing. The wince changed to a cringe when Sherlock flopped beside him on the couch, causing his make-shift ice pack to shift.

“Sorry,” Sherlock murmured, pressing a kiss to John's hair.

“It's okay.”

“I mean, that, and tonight.”

John quieted a moment. “That wasn't your fault, you know. Don't feel bad.”

Sherlock nuzzled into John's neck. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” John kissed Sherlock's cheek. “Love you.”

“Er, love you too.” It was still coming out awkward. “Sorry. Working on that still.”

John sighed and leaned his head against Sherlock's, then closed his eyes. “Fucking teenagers.”

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded as if making a decision. “Yes. Fucking teenagers.”

Soon enough, he felt John's warm smile against his cheek.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little known fact that I love comments. :0 Now you know.


	5. Lunch Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock didn't even want to eat.
> 
> "Lovely. Lovely place for a date. Cockroach approval."
> 
> tw here for vomiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HONIES I AM SO SORRY  
> SCHOOL STARTED AND I'M CURRENTLY HOSTING AN EXCHANGE STUDENT AT MY HOUSE UNTIL NOVEMBER  
> im trying to be sneaky and im so sorry i haven't updated anyone on this. i wish there was a little blog thing i could inform you all with, but i guess i'll have to do this instead  
> Posting will be funny if I can get around to it. I won't abandon the story, though, I promise! Thank you all for your patience!! xxx  
> Also, this is short. I know. Sorry.

"I can't believe you're hungry. Didn't we just have breakfast?"

"That was five hours ago and I had half a piece of toast before you dragged me out for the case."

Sherlock harrumphed, fixing his collar as they approached a random cafe. He pulled John in by the arm. "Come on, over here."

John stumbled and rolled his eyes, but allowed it upon another growl of his stomach. "Christ, at least I'm getting something."

"You should be thanking me. I'll pay and we'll consider it a date."

John stopped when they'd reached a table. "Really?" 

Sherlock pulled a menu from the table and slapped it down in front of John. "Don't get a steak."

John only grinned. "I don't believe they have that." He extended his hand and found Sherlock's, giving it a squeeze before letting go.

"Pick something and hurry. We have to interview the parents and son in thirty minutes," Sherlock commented, checking his watch.

"Fish and chips it is then." John slid the menu toward the detective. "Now you."

"No."

John stared.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "Still no."

The doctor sighed and put back the menu. "Fine, you stubborn – oh, shit, look."

Sherlock looked next to him, against the wall where their table was. "Ah. Cockroaches."

"Lovely. Lovely place for a date. Cockroach approval."

"I believe they're preparing to mate."

"Can they do it on the wall?"

The detective paused. "I don't know."

"Oh my God." John rubbed his eyes, took a good look at the place, then groaned. "This place looks horribly run-down, you know."

"Their food may be good. They probably won some recognition. Of sorts."

John glared. "The wallpaper is peeling."

* * *

 

"Slow down."

John paused, a forkful of fish nearly to his mouth. He set it down and winced. "You're probably right. I'm just starving." He pressed a hand to his stomach. "I think I'm full already."

"We need to leave. I'll go pay the bill upfront," Sherlock offered, standing.

"Ta, love," John croaked, pushing his nearly-finished plate far away. "I'll be there in a moment."

But when Sherlock returned, he frowned and looked down at John. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Yeah – oh, no. No, not really," John answered quickly, doubling over across the little table. "God, knew this was a bad idea to eat here." He rested his forehead against the cool – and sticky – table. "Shit."

"Maybe we should go."

"I don't know if I should move."

"John."

The doctor groaned and folded his arms over his stomach. "I'm sweating."

Sherlock approached him and set his hands on John's shoulders. "John, we have to interview them in fifteen minutes. We have to go."

"Sh– I – hold on," John panted.

"We have to go!" Sherlock pulled John up.

"No – _Sherlock_ – no, no, n–" John stumbled into Sherlock, held his mouth, and promptly vomited onto the detective's suit jacket.

* * *

 

"Disgusting. It'll have to be dry-cleaned." 

John only grit his teeth and groaned in pain, hands at his stomach again. 

"Are you going to do it again?"

John nodded weakly, and Sherlock sighed, leading him to the nearest alley and pulling them in. While John mostly dry-heaved and gagged this time, Sherlock rubbed his back, ran a hand through his sweaty hair, and frowned at his blazer hanging over his arm.

"We're late to the interview," Sherlock mumbled, and John snapped, sitting up right and holding the wall for support.

"Go...bugger off to your interview, you...selfish prat. I'm going to walk – walk home," John panted, wiping his forehead.

Sherlock paused, tensed up, and then relaxed. His shoulders slumped as he pulled out his phone. "I'll tell Lestrade to take it."

John stared at him for a long moment until the other man had pocketed his phone. He wavered over and hugged him around the waist. "Be my doctor for today," he murmured into his shoulder.

"I'll be no better than a nurse," Sherlock teased, pressing a kiss to his warm forehead.  

 

 

 

 


	6. Museums and Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is this...?” Victor gestured to John.  
> Then, at the same time, they talked over each other.  
> Sherlock said, “John Watson, my flatmate,” and John said, “Dr. John Watson, his boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK FROM THE DEAD AGAIN. Thank you all for your patience and dedication.
> 
> There is porn in this chapter. Of course. It's little, and it's sort of unnecessary, but whatever.
> 
> Also, two days ago was my birthday! Your present can be a comment and kudos (if you haven't left some yet). :) Better than cake.

“Museums aren't so dull after all,” Sherlock murmured, running his fingertips over a cast of a skull. A pouting child anxiously squeezed past him and began opening and closing the jaw loudly.

John pulled Sherlock toward him and away from the play skull. “Stop messing around in the kid's section.”

“What else am I supposed to do around here?” Sherlock asked. “I don't desire to walk through the exhibition on the prime ministers and I don't want to look at scribbles and statues exhibit either.”

“You mean the art exhibit?”

Sherlock snorted self-righteously. “ _Please._ You know what, though? Since the movie theater, I've been thinking about places we could properly – ”

“Jesus. Do _not_ mention that here. Kids. Over there, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stepped behind John and wrapped his arms around his waist. John went stiff and glared. “Come to the restroom with me.”

“Let go of me, I swear to God, you oaf.”

Sherlock kissed John's ear, and goosebumps rose on the doctor's arms under his shirt.

“Oh, you don't like the PDA, do you?” Sherlock observed knowingly with a grin. He stepped backward and headed for the toilets.

John turned and watched him go down the corridor near an exhibit under construction and sighed as a fond little stirring occurred in his pants, forcing himself not to laugh manically as he followed soon after.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was at the door as a man walked out of the one-person bathroom. John joined his side and blew a breath out. When the man passed around the corner, he murmured, “Seriously?”

“I specifically knew there'd be no one coming in and a proper lock.”

“Clever. Much cleverer than doing it in a movie theater.”

“Shut up.” Sherlock pulled him in swiftly after checking both directions. He shut the door after them and clicked the lock.

“Public bathrooms are disgusting,” John huffed, leaning into Sherlock's back and pressing the detective's stomach up against the door. His hands fell to Sherlock's hips as he slowly rotated his pelvis against his bum.

“I agree, but it adds a risk factor. _Danger._ ” Sherlock grinned and pushed away John's hands in order to turn around. He pulled him close by the arms, back now to the door, and kissed him deeply. He felt John's hands cup his backside, and Sherlock let out a soft grunt into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

No more than about ten minutes later, they both had their trousers and pants pooled around their ankles, and John had Sherlock's front to the door as he rubbed his leaking cock up against the crack of Sherlock's ass.

“God, want to fuck you...beautiful thing, you,” he groaned out, causing Sherlock to whimper and shudder beneath his fingers as he tugged at the other man's burning erection. “When we're home. Wish we had lube...”The doctor kissed down Sherlock's neck and pumped his hand along the detective's length faster. “I'd have you right up against this door.”

“ _John,_ ” was the breathless response he got.

“I'm here, love,” he reassured.

“Have to – John – finish me off. Please,” Sherlock moaned quietly, eyelids fluttering and body quivering.

John hesitated in his own frantic humping against Sherlock's lower back and swallowed. “I've wanted to try this. Stop me if it's not arousing in the least.” He got down on his knees and spread apart Sherlock's cheeks.

“What the hell are you – oh _God,_ ” Sherlock gasped, turning crimson.

John ran his tongue along the crease and over Sherlock's hole, pausing when he heard choked whimpers from above him. “Good?”

Sherlock whined and nodded, fingers scrambling the door for purchase. “Going to come.”

John let go of one cheek to cup the tip of Sherlock's prick. Then, he lowered his head and wriggled his tongue against the hole again until it seemed to relax. He stuck it in, absently joyful at the thought of fucking Sherlock with his tongue.

But the moment he did so, Sherlock went as tense as a bow string, let out a muffled shout, and splattered hard into John's hand without warning.

During this time, he removed his tongue and pressed kisses to the cheeks and the dip of his lower back. His other hand was stroking his own cock as the detective came down, and once his partner stopped seeing stars, John stumbled up to his feet to finish himself off. The hand covered in Sherlock's semen slapped against said detective's stomach as he rutted for all he was worth, throwing his head back and moaning as he came and came and came all over the clean slate of Sherlock's back.

“Oh, _shit,_ ” he sighed when he'd finished, stumbling for the bathroom's paper towels. He wiped them both down and exchanged some giggly, endorphin-fueled kisses with Sherlock as they dressed. “My God. So fucking ridiculous.”

Sherlock was still trying to control his giggle fit. “You loved it.”

“I bloody well enjoyed it, yeah,” John teased. “I hope no one had to use this bathroom.”

“Least populated one. Like I said, I made sure.”

Eventually, mostly clean and somewhat alleviated from oxytocin, they stumbled out without even checking their surroundings. Everything was clear, anyway, until they rounded the corner and Sherlock slammed right into another man going across, but not to the toilets.

“Oh, my apologies – “ The man stopped, and his eyes widened as he looked at Sherlock. John hoped he couldn't smell sex reeking off of them.

“Yes, yours, good day,” Sherlock said after a pause from the other man.

“No, hold on – Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes?”

Impending doom seemed to appear on Sherlock's face. “No, you're mistaken,” he muttered, turning. John followed, but watched behind him.

“It's Vic! Vic Trevor, don't you remember?”

Sherlock stopped and slowly turned on his heel. John turned after him and suddenly felt anxious.

“Victor?”

“Only on business trips.” Victor extended his arms for a hug.

“Victor Trevor,” Sherlock stated dully, looking him up and down and not moving in for the hug.

“You used to call me Vic. Or idiot. Most of the times 'love' or 'baby' was a bit better, though.” The other man smiled. “So serious now. I'm sure you don't miss uni one bit, though.”

Sherlock didn't smile back. He hesitated, and John thought he'd gone stiff a moment.

“Is this...?” Victor gestured to John.

Then, at the same time, they talked over each other.

Sherlock said, “John Watson, my flatmate,” and John said, “Dr. John Watson, his boyfriend.”

They both turned red, but John more out of anger and Sherlock of embarrassment.

“Right,” Victor said. “Perhaps –“

“I'm...going to be late for a thing. Sorry,” John excused, feeling childish as he headed for an exit. Any exit. His throat lodged up.

 _How?_ They'd just shagged in public bathroom and he calls them bloody _flatmates_ in front of his -

Oh. Victor wasn't his ex, was he? _Was_ he?

John shoved his face into his hands as he stammered out the address to the flat to the driver.

_Oh, God._

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock came in later that evening, near dinner time, and shut the door.

John glanced up from his novel and sat up on the couch. “Hi.”

“I walked around and thought for a long while.”

“You tend to do that.”

“I didn't walk with him, by the way.”

Silence.  
Then, again, they talked over each other.

Sherlock blurted, “John, I completely spoke out of ignorance – “

And John fumbled out, “Maybe I shouldn't have taken so much offense – “

They both paused. John set down his novel. “He was your ex, wasn't he?”

“No. Well, yes,” Sherlock said quietly, and stood in his spot. John let him.

“You got anxious. It's normal.” John looked at his folded hands, his elbows resting on his knees. “Don't worry about it.”

“I called you my flatmate.”

“I _am_ your flatmate, though.”

“You're much more than that. You don't just pay half the rent.”

John nodded hesitantly, and cleared his throat. “Listen, how about we...just let it blow over for a couple days? Because neither of us should have to apologize for this.”

Sherlock bristled in discomfort and let silence fill the gap for a moment. “Are you coming to bed?” he asked.

“My bed,” John replied in a flat, tired tone. He picked up his book, rested a hand on Sherlock's right shoulder for leverage, and pecked his cheek far too softly before heading to the stairs for his old room. “Night.”

Sherlock stood there in the sitting room, lights still on and a far window still open, and only managed to croak out a guilty “goodnight” after the noise of the footsteps tapered off.

Even with his coat still wrapped about his body, Sherlock felt cold and unsettled, and didn't sleep longer than a few hours that night in the empty bed.

 


	7. A Better Night In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stop it. Stop...thinking." John's eyes searched Sherlock's dulled ones. 
> 
> "I have," Sherlock replied in a rasping tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, again, so, SO sorry about deserting this fic. We vacationed a lot to show our student the U.S. and school got in the way as well - I'm entirely too stressed out. :(  
> Also, I totally lied about seven chapters! There will be nine. I got carried away.
> 
> ***The next one (ch. 8) is smut, so it's not necessary to read. Skip to nine if you're not into that kinda thing.***
> 
> Also also, in apology for my absence, I'll be posting a little tiny johnlock fic after I upload this bunch!
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR STICKING WITH ME I KNOW I'M A JERK

Two weeks after the Victor Incident, as Sherlock referred it to, John was nearly ready to give up on going on dates. They were doing just fine, but it seemed every time they went to enjoy themselves outside the bedroom, things cocked up. He trudged home, a bit tired, and shuffled through the door. A smell struck him as he lumbered up the stairs, and it registered as chicken. Confused, he hurried up a bit quicker, and managed to smile a bit at another smell – something burnt. But why would Sherlock be experimenting with chicken? Something to do with some case? God, he hoped not.

He wasn't surprised to find not a single test tube, beaker, scapula, scoopula, glove, or other equipment on the table.

He _was_ surprised to find two plates, napkins, wine glasses with their bottle, and Sherlock Holmes straightening out the silverware on the table.

“Sherlock...” He was a little breathless.

Sherlock turned, exuberant, and grinned. “I know. There's no need to thank me.” The detective took a small, humble bow.

“No, I – did you burn an entire loaf of bread?”

Sherlock furrowed his brows and pressed his lips into a thin line.

 

* * *

 

 

“But you really made all this up for me.”

“Yesh,” Sherlock responded around a bite of chicken, brow raised. He swallowed. “It's not worrying you, is it?”

“No, I just...I don't know what to say. The food's...”

“Delicious?” Sherlock suggested.

John answered slowly, “Satisfactory.”

Sherlock glared.  
“What do you want?” John asked.

“A lovely night in with my partner. What else?” came the muttered, quick reply.

“You're a bit tense.”

Sherlock glanced, up, opened his mouth to say something, and glanced away to take a long drink of his red wine. Once he'd set it down, he took in a deep breath.

John blinked, concerned, and tried to read his lover's face. “What's bothering you?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and shook his head, his hand ducking under the table for something.

“Sherlock.”

No response. Sherlock continually looted under the tabletop blindly, hand searching.

“ _Sherlock._ ”

Sherlock gave a little cry of victory and checked his hand to see if he'd got what he wanted. He still hadn't replied.

 Now, John – John had had quite enough. He'd been vomited on twice today, missed his lunch break, and had been yelled at by three patients.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John snapped.

“Marry me,” Sherlock responded.

John stopped as if he'd been put on pause, a confusedly shocked look on his face. An estimated seven seconds of slow silence sunk between them, taking its place uncomfortably across the table. Sherlock cleared his throat, quickly turning a shade of rose from his ears to his neck, and slid the ring halfway toward him.

“We've...” John's words halted in his throat, and he found it hard to breathe a moment.

More silence. Sherlock swallowed and stared down at the edge of his plate.

John's fork dropped to the wood of the table, and he stood, the legs of the chair scraping the floor. His feet carried him to crouch to the side of Sherlock's seat.

“Sherlock...” John's hand rested on one nestled in the detective's lap. His fingers curled around it, and once his partner's eyes turned onto his, John kissed him.

The way his friend's lips trembled against his in the chaste kiss, it was almost as if he could feel his heart breaking through them. John pressed his lips to his tighter and grabbed his face to reassure him. Slowly, he pulled back when Sherlock's hands gripped his elbows. “Sherlock Holmes,” John breathed out, smiling slightly. “We've only been dating for four weeks, you maniac.”

Sherlock's expression faltered slightly. “But we've known each other for a little over five years.”

“True. And I did kill for you the second night I knew you.” This gained him a small smile from the detective.

“Then why not?” Sherlock asked.

“Because... _because,_ Sherlock. We've just started this and I don't know if I'm ready to call you my husband just yet.” The doctor's voice remained soft and gentle, and he sat up to grab the ring off the table. It was a simple silver band, skinny and shiny. He ran a thumb over it and took Sherlock's hand. Then, he opened his palm, placed the ring in the center, and closed the detective's fingers over it. He kissed his knuckles. “Just to let you know, I'm not saying 'no', I'm saying 'not quite yet',” John murmured, glancing up at Sherlock. “I love you.” This didn't improve the look on Sherlock's face. “Hey.” John shifted up and touched the detective's cheek, feeling the heat rise beneath it. “God, I bloody love you. I love you so much, Sherlock. And trust me when I say I _do_ want to spend the rest of my life with you. I've wanted it for years. Come here.” He pulled Sherlock into another kiss, and squeezed the weak fist holding the ring.

“I thought I was supposed to do this,” Sherlock sighed when they'd parted. “I thought, perhaps, you wanted to be married. Legally bound to someone. Domesticity. Especially after her.” He spoke the last word a bit quieter.

“You couldn't give me a little domesticity, even if you try.” John smiled. “I want you to try this again in the future. And I don't mean next week. I need the time still.”

Sherlock shifted awkwardly.

"You're anxious. Stop it. Stop...thinking." John's eyes searched Sherlock's dulled ones. 

  
"I have," Sherlock replied in a rasping tone. The man cleared his throat. "I'm a little relieved. I wouldn't be ready myself. For that step, I mean."

  
John sighed, running fingers through his greying tufts of hair, and stood up. He dragged the detective with him. 

  
Sherlock stared at John now, slipping the ring into his breast pocket. "I." He hesitated. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say. Should I apologize?"

  
John couldn't prevent the huff of amusement from his lips. He took Sherlock's hand and pulled him out of the kitchen, into the corridor. Seconds later, the doctor motioned Sherlock onto their bed in the bedroom. 

  
Sherlock sat gingerly on the edge, as if it wasn't the bed they slept in every night. Green-silver eyes raked over John's figure as he approached and gently nudged the consulting detective onto his back. The figure beneath John stayed perfectly still, save for a hitch in his breathing. John's shoes thudded onto the floor as his legs fumbled onto the made bed, and warm lips softly ascended a layer of pale skin on the self-proclaimed sociopath's jaw. The damp kisses continued down to Sherlock's neck until John had won a soft grunt from his lover. He quickly backed up to see Sherlock's eyes closed, a look of red, relaxed lust on his cheeks, until his eyes had flickered open in confusion. Something he rarely saw.

  
"John?" Sherlock rumbled.

  
"You're the stupidest person..." John huffed out.

  
Sherlock's answering grin was all he needed for the permission to kiss him with bruising pressure.

 


	8. A Better Night In, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor's face flickered to worry. "You quite all right? You were..."
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock swallowed. "I believe the term is 'love-making,' is it not?"
> 
>  
> 
> "Come again?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very short smut and its a lil bit emotional but not terribly :0

John slid in a second finger, and Sherlock writhed in pleasure beneath him on his back. "I completely agree that the dates were absolute rubbish," the doctor uttered, then leaned down to suck a nipple into his mouth. A sharp hiccuped gasp sounded beneath him, and he grinned, teeth brushing the skin.

  
"Horrendous," Sherlock wheezed, laughing a bit when John blew on his wet nipple. 

  
"Ticklish," John murmured, nuzzling into Sherlock's navel.  
  


"Am not," Sherlock defended, and jolted his hips up when a third finger nudged into his hole. _"God..."_  
  


"I've heard you imply the opposite," John teased.  
  


"What — oh, very funny." Sherlock wiggled. "Put your cock in now."  
  


"Bossy even in bed," John laughed gently, teasing the prostate lump. Sherlock moaned beneath him, chest flushing pink, as he did it a few more times before removing his fingers. He wiped them carelessly across the sheets and reached again for the lubricant as his partner adjusted the pillows beneath his head. Once he'd slicked up his erection, he cleared his throat, adjusting until the head of his penis was a gentle, anxious pressure brushing the detective's entrance. "Okay, love?" he asked.  
  


"Kiss me," Sherlock asked of him, and John complied with a grin, connecting their lips. Sherlock's hands were against John's hips a moment before they were shoving him home, slamming him into the detective's body until he was completely deep, in one go. Sherlock whimpered and his lips parted in a strangled cry, and John cried out as well, shocked. But it was bloody _fantastic._ Stars hit the backs of John's eyelids before he opened them, trying so badly not to thrust and to give his lover time as well. _"Sherlock!"_ he gasped. "Jesus fucking —"  
  


" _Yes_ ," the detective hissed. "Felt..." His cheeks were flushing near-scarlet now. "Felt rough." His eyes darted away. "Wanted you to really enjoy that."  
  


John moaned into Sherlock's neck, head dropped, and minutely shifted his hips. He heard a tiny gasp. "Fucking hell. Got to give yourself time to adjust, love." He felt more than heard Sherlock chuckle lowly against him, arms tightening. "I _am_ adjusted. Go for it."  
  


John's mouth dried, and he lifted his bum up a bit, unsheathing his cock slowly before slamming it back in. They both moaned with each other, and John pulled out and aimed for the prostate this time.   
  


Sherlock whined and bit his lip, head tossing backward. He opened his eyes to the ceiling and concentrated on the white to prevent himself from coming quickly. Pre-ejaculate was already dribbling on his stomach. A breath tickled his ear, and he closed his eyes and shuddered at the words John panted.  
  


"Love you so bloody much, Sherlock. Have to be with you forever. Can't imagine a life without you now."

  
John thrust again, balls slapping up against Sherlock. The sound of it, the friction, the endearments being whispered in his ear, and the sweaty and musky smell of their naked bodies made Sherlock lose the ability to swallow. John was fucking him in earnest, now. Everything blurred — John's thrusts slowed a bit as thumbs traced Sherlock's face, and —  
and —  
 _oh._  
  


Tears were on Sherlock's cheeks. Curious. A muffled voice from above him – John, of course, was asking him if he was okay, still fucking slowly and palming his erection for him, and suddenly kissing his face all over, telling him everything was okay, a finger pressing against the slit of his flushed cock. 

  
Sherlock came in a trance, eyes fluttering, noise breaking from his throat in a sob – in the one name of his lover – and muscles tensing as he splattered wet and hot and desperate across himself, shuddering in pleasure as his hands clutched John's arms. 

  
The faint thrusting inside him sped up, stopped, stilled, and there was a burst of liquid warmth into his body, and suddenly, he was empty (but yet, now filled with John's proof of pleasure?). Then, a sweat-soaked body pressed up beside him, and a kiss was placed on his ear. The trance broke just as John wheezed out, "You didn't seriously slip into your Mind Palace during sex?"  
Sherlock cracked a smile and turned, suddenly sore, and captured John's lips in a kiss. 

  
"Was this a better date?" His voice was hoarse, limbs still weak and tongue still heavy from splendid orgasm.  
  


"The best. You didn't answer me," John laughed breathlessly. The doctor's face flickered to worry. "You quite all right? You were..."  
  


Sherlock swallowed. "I believe the term is 'love-making,' is it not?"  
  


"Come again?"  
  


"This wasn't just shagging, or sex, or getting off. It was...emotional. My chest _hurt,_ John." He fixed him with a gaze. "I was feeling more than arousal."  
  


"You great oaf. I love you too," John replied, grinning hard.  
  


"Yes, that — that, love you. Love you too, John." Sherlock cleared his throat, smiled just slightly, and pecked his lips. "Now, be a dear, grab a flannel, and clean us up while I lounge here."   
  


John bit Sherlock's shoulder and growled.  
  


"Ow — _please,_ John."

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter!
> 
> Thank you all for your comments, kudos, bookmarks, reads, hits, encouragement, and ESPECIALLY patience! I can't express how grateful I am for all of it. You – yes, you! – have made this all possible. I can't write without an audience.
> 
> So THANK YOU. All of you. Even you little jerks who might've clicked, thought, 'Eh, nah,' and left. (You gave it a shot. Good for you. I'm no professional, after all.)
> 
> To wrap it all up in my favorite quote from Doctor Who...  
> "And before I go, I just wanna tell you – you were fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. And do you know what? So was I!"
> 
>  
> 
> xxx,  
> warm_nostalgia

A morning, seven months later, found John Watson snuggled up to Sherlock Holmes in the same bed. 

  
"Alarm's 'bout to go off," John murmured into Sherlock's ear. 

  
Sherlock groaned and curled more into himself.   


John sat up in the covers. "Hey, c'mon. It's a big day. Hm?" He pushed at Sherlock's shoulder, then ducked to murmur into his ear, "January twenty-ninth of this year, at twelve o'clock in the afternoon, you are cordially invited to your own — _mmfshh-lck!"_ John snatched the pillow thrown at his face, tossing it aside.

 

"Wedding," he continued, as if never interrupted. "Your own wedding."

 

Sherlock rolled over, bleary-eyed as long, lethargic fingers pulled John down by his pajama top. John sighed, and met Sherlock halfway into a closed-mouth, morning breath-cautious kiss, and broke it when the alarm sounded. John stretched and dragged himself away from the kiss, ruffling his fiancé's curls. He stopped the alarm and cupped his lover's face. "Showers, breakfast, teeth, suits. Mm?"

 

Sherlock frowned. "Not a second to spare for a quick romp, I bet."  


"We've got all night for that. And the next two weeks, too. Rome honeymoon, remember?"

  
Haughtily, Sherlock sniffed, rolling out of the bed and naturally taking the sheets with him like a second skin. 

 

* * *

 

  
"Suppose I can't still convince you to go with 'Dr. Captain John Holmes'?"  


John spit toothpaste into the sink and shrugged Sherlock's arms off from around his waist. "We're still John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."  


There was a pause, in which Sherlock wrapped his arms around John again and kissed his neck. "Um, hm. Maybe one of those..." Sherlock thought. "Holmes hyphen Watson? Holmes-Watson? John Holmes-Watson. Dr. Captain John Holmes-Watson. Dr. Captain John Holmes _hyph_ —"  


"Sherlock."  


"Oh, fine. Watson hyphen Holmes, if you please. Watson-Holmes. John Watson-Holmes, Dr. Captain John —"  


"Sherlock!"  


"Watson-Holmes. Hyphen. Dash. Dot. Full stop. _Mine —"_  


"Sherlock Watson," John murmured under his breath.  


Sherlock stilled. John watched his face in the mirror, watched it grow into a little cringe.   


John bit back a smile. "Sherlock Watson-Holmes."  


"All right, it doesn't sound all that great —" Sherlock's hands were drifting from John's waist. John grabbed them and held them tight.  


"William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes, Consulting Detective William Watson, Mr. Sherlock Watson-Holmes — née Holmes, Sherly Watson-Holmes, oh God, _Bill Scotty Sherly Watson-Holmes!—"_  


"Shut up! Shut up!" Sherlock tried to keep a straight face, flushing in embarrassment and amusement as his fiancé doubled over in stifled laughter. "Stupid prat." His hands twisted, trying to leave John's grip.  


John twisted around and grabbed Sherlock's face in a soft kiss, then released him, grinning broadly.   


"I want a divorce," Sherlock murmured, fighting a smile.   


"Good. That means we have to get married first. Then I'll try and change your mind."  


"Do your worst," Sherlock retorted.   


 

* * *

  


"You look handsome," Sherlock murmured from John's old bedroom's doorway.  


John chuckled, not turning from the mirror and rubbing in the last of the wet cologne. "Bad luck. You, seeing me now."  


"Oh, so you _are_ the bride. Glad we agree on that."  


"Stuff it." John turned, face softening as he took in his groom in his suit.

 

The whole world blurred behind the detective, his flatmate, his friend. His curls were still springy, if not slightly tamed by gel. The smart apparel, the youngness in his face, the dimmed outside light of the hallway lightening him. He'd not seen them since they had been in the bathroom, and John's breath had stuck in his throat, as if he'd swallowed hard candy too early.

 

There was a pause in which John wondered if Sherlock was thinking the same of him. His heart thudded in his throat and his hands clammed up. He was nauseous. He was about to vomit on his wedding day.   


"Car's waiting," Sherlock said quietly.  


John swallowed hard and approached Sherlock, who led them down the stairs and just to the threshold when John stopped. He glanced up at Sherlock, the man he was going to marry in just less than an hour, for reassurance.  


Mycroft, in the passenger seat of the Rolls Royce, rolled down the window with a sniff. He glanced them over with a look that betrayed nothing.  


"Oh, dear,” the voice drawled monotonously. “We can't save the lustful looks for the wedding night? Brother dear, John, we haven't got all day. Do stop ogling and get in," his future brother-in-law called, just as haughty as his brother.

 

The window rolled back up, and Sherlock grabbed John's hand. "You're not going to vomit on my shoes, are you?"  


John let out a relieved laugh of sorts, and swallowed. "No, I just — are you ready?"  


Sherlock furrowed his brows and looked doubtfully at John. "Of course I am. Are you?"  


John squeezed Sherlock's hand back, smiled, and breathed. "'Course. 'Course I am. It's just us, getting married."   


Sherlock twitched a smile, running his thumb over John's ring, and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek. A flush seemed to crawl up the detective's neck as he contemplated his next words. "John, I am profoundly in love with you.” It was a deadly serious statement – his oath, his swear, his _vow._ “So...stop thinking and just say the 'I do' bit and it's all over with.” Sherlock hesitated before giving a small smile. "All right?"

 

Just when Mycroft had rolled down his window in exasperation again, John had lunged at Sherlock in a feverish kiss, hands in mildly-tamed curls and pulling them apart – all in order to stifle a sob.

 

* * *

 

 

Late in the night, John would hold his new husband _(husband)_ in his arms, bare and sated, listening to him breathe, both of them finally relaxed for the first time in hours. Eventually they would have to race to the airport for Rome tomorrow morning, deal with foreigners and traffic and other tourists, but that was tomorrow. Tonight, he would study how well their silver-banded hands fit together, and how no date compared to this. _This._ The twenty-ninth of January. Twice, the best date of his life.

 

For once, Central London was quiet, and the rain had just let up.

 

 

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [PSST. Did anyone catch what the date January 29th meets up with in the show timeline? hint hint!]


End file.
